A Burning Card Decided Eternity
by Inki Veins
Summary: Follow the lives of four groups of creatures, each on their own mission for survival, for love, for peace. Not everything is as the game portrays. Delve into the life shrouded by the gruesome appearance. Summary could be better. READ AT OWN RISK!
1. AGASTOPIA

**A Burning Card Decided Eternity**

**an A-B-C series of short stories**

**based off of the game series Left 4 Dead**

**I do not own any of the concept characters, to include the Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Witch, Tank, Jockey, Charger, Spitter, or Boomette. I also do not own the zombie apocalypse theme. I do, however, own Immunes and the characteristics and actions of any of the Infected listed above or mentioned throughout the story.**

**This collection may contain scenes that are inappropriate for young children. Other content may be offensive to others. This is rated M for Mature. Read at your Own Risk.**

* * *

**AGASTOPIA – (n) admiration of a particular part of someone's body**

Mario found himself staring across the safe house, gun high on his arm. But he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. Not even on this creature who was just bawling, curled in a ball away from him. He could still hear the Commons outside, clawing halfheartedly at the large red door before them. All the noise outside should have alerted her. She should have turned to investigate, looked at him, and charged like her sisters usually did. But she just continued to cry. Mario shuffled to the left around the furniture, weapon still cocked and loaded just in case. He couldn't see her skin, her long silver hair flowing down her back like a cloak. Carefully, he found a position where he could watch her completely and a hushed "ohmygawd" rushed from his lips.

Her skin was the deepest chocolate brown he had ever seen. It looked like she was wearing a skin-tight suit to hide her true concrete-gray color. Remnants of red hugged her hips and peeked between strands of her mane. She continued to tremble with tears, having yet to shift from her stationary position. Mario lowered his gun and slowly picked up his jaw. She removed a clawed hand from her face and moved hair behind her ear, a strikingly human response. She turned her head slowly, as if finally noticing something out of the ordinary, and her light blue eyes moved in his direction. He froze, stiff as a board, trigger finger tensing but doing nothing more. She rotated her entire body on the spot and sniffled. Could she see him? Her eyes, or he could see of them, did not meet his, but focused lower, on his weapon.

A long, upset moan dripped over her lips and she continued to cry, body trembling. Mario took one step closer. And then another. And another. She didn't stir, but her cry grew quieter the closer he came. Her body heaved sharp breaths as she remained locked on his gun. He couldn't help but to stare as her image finally found its way to center stage.

Her face was young, not even twenty years old. She ran a small hand under her nose to stop her running nose. She stared at his face with her off-colored eyes, but she didn't move. Her eyes darted back and forth across his features, always coming back to his gun. She sniffled once more before placing her hand out towards him, claws curling into small arches. A needy whimper came from her pink lips. When he didn't move, she rose to her feet and he backed away on reflex, gun raising in a natural movement to such an advancement. She stopped and huffed softly, walking away from her corner but to the other side of the safe house, towards the door. He could see more of her: her long legs, her small feet, and her immensely large ears. He found himself staring at her ears. A single earring hung from one as her claws curled around the bars. A Common who had been wandering smelled her scent and charged, forcing the abnormal Witch to push away, more tears dripping down her face. Mario didn't realize he had shot the heartless creature until it fell with a strangled gurgle and the shell casing clinked on the floor.

The Witch turned to him and shuddered, his gun still high in the air. He lowered it absentmindedly, staring the Witch in her eyes. She walked around the couch in the middle of the room and embraced him, her face burrowed into his neck. The sudden shock of warmth over his jugular forced his heart rate up as his arousal grew. She held on tighter, a few inches shorter than his 6'3" body, burrowing her face into his chest, purring contently. His heart was thudding now against his ribs and her purrs grew louder. Her claws danced over his spine and he squirmed out of her grip, a strange sensation running though his veins. She whimpered and lowered her head, a few fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.

"No no no no," Mario began, holding her shoulders. "Don't cry. Please."

She wept even louder, her hair veiling around her face. He brought her into another hug and just stood their, holding her. What had he done? He walked her around the couch and sat her down next to him. Still, she wept, face down to her lap. His heart constricted in inner hatred. Why did he have to make her cry? She hadn't done anything to him. He sighed to himself and placed a few fingers at her hairline, moving the strands from his view and catching a few tears in the process. She was a beautiful creature, he had to admit, thought the reoccurring reminder that she was a Witch, a monster child of the zombie apocalypse, kept him at arm's length.

He stood up and moved to scout the area for food and to check if water was readily available. He needed a bath, and a shave. He opened some kitchen cabinets and saw a few cans of Pork and Beans hiding behind ammunition and the swarm of dead cockroaches. He grabbed a can and went to look for a can opener or a knife when a chain of rapid gunfire sliced the silence. A piercing scream glued him to the spot. It was the angry cry of a disturbed Witch. There was another round of gunfire and the strangled yell of another, an Immune. Everything fell silent.

Mario counted to twenty, waiting for any more shots or noises, but none came. Not even the soft whimper of the Witch. He peered around the corner, in hopes of catching sight of the beautiful chocolate creature, but she had vanished. A body laid in the doorway, gun torn from its grasp and large gashes tearing up through its back. Mario gulped. She wasn't docile, was she? She was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode with righteous anger.

He walked out into the alleyway and noticed nothing but a trail of blood. Every fiber of his being was telling him to follow it, to see if she was alive and all right, but the rising moon forced him to retreat back into the security of the safe house. His hunger had vanished at the sight of the corpse, which he pulled outside and locked out.

The safe house felt colder. Emptier. Exposed. He wandered through the space to find something to distract him when a shining item caught his eye. It rested in the corner where the Witch had been earlier, and something was etched on it.

Avarice.

He stuffed it in his pocket. First thing in the morning, he would go looking for her. She wouldn't go too far, he hoped.

* * *

**_Chapters including Avarice and Mario are for a dead friend of mine who loves the Witch. I expect mucho love from him concerning them and others within my story. ;b_**


	2. BRONTIDE

**BRONTIDE – (n) the low rumbling of distance thunder**

The sky cracked with light as lightning touched down somewhere in the distance. One hooded creature leapt from building to building, trying desperately to reach home. His heart was pounding almost as loud as the rain around him. His hood was clinging to face. He tried to smell his way home, but the storm washed away the scent of his family.

"This stupid lightning storm," he huffed, pausing on the edge of one rooftop to hopelessly wipe his wet red hair out of his face.

Wyatt leapt for another few miles in what appeared to be the correct direction. He wasn't sure if he was going straight or in a giant circle of sorts. Either way, it frayed his nerves horribly. As if the flashes weren't enough.

A sudden crack of thunder forced his muscles to tense in midair and he plummeted down five stories, landing crooked on an old pile of trash. He couldn't even scream, his voice stolen away by the vicious clap of sound in the air. It took him a moment to find himself, shakily rising to his feet. His ears were still ringing, the noise too loud for his overly-sensitive ears.

With a deep breath, he crouched and jumped back up to the roof, his sense of direction skewed by the fall. He was worried he wasn't going to survive the night, not in this weather. His heart ached for his fathers and his boyfriend. They must be distraught.

"I'm sorry, Arson," his voice said in less than a whisper against the storm's noise. His heart clenched in fear as another roll of thunder rocked his frame. He ducked into a building for the duration of the storm, his entire thin frame racked with chills. Deeper into the building he climbed, looking for the most secluded area he could find. He could smell the stench of Spitters, who did not take too kindly to Hunters for unknown reasons, and used the training his "mother" has given him to sneak in with as little detection as possible.

Into a room he went, locking the door behind him before shedding his soaked zebra-design-like hood. He wrung out the comfortable cotton fabric of nearly a gallon of water before curling into the warmest corner of the room to go to sleep. Oh how he wanted to curl beside his lover, lost together. At least with him, he would feel safer.

"Arson..."

* * *

"We have to go find him. He's been gone for hours," Landon reasoned, pacing madly back and forth on all fours. Claw marks tore in the aqua hoodie sleeves. Vance watched him with a worried expression.

"Wyatt is a smart boy. He's probably holed up in a locked room, waiting for the hurricane to let up," Vance stated, hiding the fear he felt himself behind his ebony hair. Their son was a smart boy, both of them could attest to that, but what would happen if he ever went missing for good?

"Vance, we have to go out and look for him. We _have_ to, before he really hurts himself. Or before something else hurts him."

"I'll find him."

Landon turned in his spot as a second Smoker entered the room. The elder Smoker's cloud grew as sudden protectiveness overcame him.

"No. You will not go after my son. Not in thi-"

"That wasn't a request, sir," Arson replied, standing his ground. This was his mate. His responsibility. His lover and his life. "It was a statement."

Vance passed his lover to approach the boy who had stolen his son's fragile heart. The two smoke clouds swirled together. "One of you out in that storm is bad enough. We don't need to worry about you too."

"I don't care. I'm going to find him. And I will bring him back." His stoic demeanor was starting to slip. Wyatt's "father" was really making him anxious to leave.

Landon approached and rose to two legs, pulling back his hood. His red eyes were filled with worry and hope. A soft clawed hand landed on the young boy's shoulder.

"Please...bring my son home."

"Of course."

With that, Arson left, not willing to wait and see if Vance was going to give him the same permission. He opened the door to the hotel room and closed it behind him. Down four flights of stairs he trekked, the storm growing louder the lower he went. He stopped at the front doors of the building and sighed. He hated getting caught in the rain.

But he hated the thought of losing the love of his life even more.

So he took a deep breath to calm his nerves as a roll of thunder echoed in the distance.

"I'm coming, Wyatt."

* * *

_**All Chapters Containing these four Hunters and Smokers as main characters are for another friend of mine. I expect love from her as well. Arson, Wyatt, Landon, and Vance all belong to her. She simply allowed me to use them in my work.**_


	3. CACHINNATION

**CACHINNATION – (n) loud or hysterical laughter**

That noise. That annoying laughter. It was the bane of her existence. She wanted so desperately to track down the maker of such a noise and rip their trachea out.

Avarice traveled wherever the wind took her, determined to lose the trail of whatever was following her. It felt like someone was stalking her, and her skin grew cold. Plus she had lost her charm bracelet that she normally wore. She wasn't sure what had happened, after that mysterious face in the hall had startled her. She pulled a hand up to tug on her ears, a nervous tick of hers. That laughter!

Finally, she snapped. She charged in the direction of the incessant noise, claws spread for better luck of catching the creature. It was growing louder fast, echoing off the trees around her and confusing her to no end. Her vision was getting hazy with anger and depression was beginning to rear its ugly head. She stepped into a clearing and screeched overhead.

A small body ran past her and her ears rang at the noise. _IT WAS MAKING THAT SOUND!_ She took off after the tiny pink body, her legs moving slower than normal. She stopped again. Where had the little—

It dropped down in front of her and she jumped back in surprise. It wasn't running away. It was handing her something. She took the item and inspected it. It smelled fresh. Like food. She cautiously placed it in her mouth and chewed. Her senses bloomed. God, but was it delicious! She smiled down at the creature, who began to giggle again.

She could live with its laughter as long as it showed her where she could get more of that confectionary substance.


	4. DISCERP

**DISCERP – (v) tear off, or to pieces**

The door to the small hotel room was violently ripped off its hinges, a few screeches of sheer terror accentuating the destruction. The pink behemoth hooked its meaty, body-builder-sized fingers around the doorframe and gave a grunt of anger. He didn't care what happened to the innocents inside. As long as he got the creature who had taken his pinky off. More of the outer lights poured inside and the shrieks grew in volume, followed by jabbering.

The Tank couldn't help, during the tirade, to feel sorry for himself. What felt like a lifetime ago, he was a happy creature. No anger. No fear. No negativity. Maybe this was God's way, or whoever was turning innocent people into monsters or monster chow, of balancing out the universe. Nice people become swallowed in uncontrollable fits of rage. Sociable beings turn into crying, short tempered anorexics. Whatever the reason for his transformation, he hated it. He didn't want to be like this. But something more primal, instinctual, was controlling his actions. And it wouldn't let him stop until it was satisfied.

He finally found enough room to bend low and reach inside, grabbing a hold of the first thing to enter his grasp. He pulled back the kicking and squirming thing, holding it high in the air before bashing it against the ground. It stopped squirming. He raised it back up to his face and took a good look.

Covered face, green jacket, but it smelled different that he did. It didn't smell like his blood, but his primal side didn't care. It would pay the price for his pain.

Using his other hand, he grabbed an arm between two fingers and yanked hard in one direction. Muscles and bones tore with ease and a startled, wounded screech rattled his mind. He threw down the one arm and repositioned the bleeding, thrashing body to remove the second arm. He took his time with the second limb, twisting it tauter and just watching the thing's head whip back and forth, feet curling up to kick weakly at his hand.

He dropped the twitching body after letting it wriggle a few more time, satisfied and horrified with his handiwork. He'd just handicapped a creature for life. Someone like him. Something that he couldn't even prove had attacked him in the first place. How did he know that this poor creation of the apocalypse hadn't just been sleeping when he tore apart its home, and body?

With a sigh, he took his pointer finger and crushed the tortured soul's head with a pop, cringing at the noise for the first time since he could recall. He'd murdered something, for no good reason at all, and he was never going to forget.


	5. ELEUTHEROMANIA

**ELEUTHEROMANIA – (n) manic desire for freedom**

Time seemed to dredge on forever around the chilled Hunter as sleep eluded him. It was too dangerous, but he was so very tired. If the Spitters weren't hissing madly in the background or through the walls, he would've been out a long time ago. If Arson was here...

Wyatt accepted his current predicament. He wasn't going anywhere. Not with the Spitters now sniffing around outside and the rain coming down even harder than before. He wished that the rain would stop. He wished that the sky would turn a lovely burnt orange like it always does during the dusk. He wished he could go back outside and just lay on his side in the sun.

Most of all, he wished he was free.

Free of the hurt. The pain. The constant fear. The criticizing looks from Immunes and Infected alike. He just wanted his life back before everything went to pieces. But...he didn't have a life before all of this. His parents, his "mom" and "dad"...they brought him into this world, raised him as best they could in an apocalyptic afterlife. No, he wasn't raised like he'd seen in those old movies with a family of four, a white picket fence, and these creatures called pets. He didn't have to attend school or do homework. He did have to do chores, that much had been passed down, but it was still so different.

Part of him, a rather terrifyingly large part of him, wished to be freed of the claws and just live like the Immunes. His eyes drooped down as the darkness overcame him and his sense clicked off one by one.

Just like the Immunes...


	6. FARCTATE

**FARCTATE – (n) the state of being stuffed with food (overeating)**

Charlie couldn't help her condition. She was what she was, what she had solemnly always been: hungry. Between eating and sleeping, she had a full schedule. And being a giant tub of lard with digestive problems didn't change a thing.

She wriggled around, her body two seconds behind as she waddled along. The sun made her skin feel like it was boiling, but it also brought out all the delicious smells of food being nearby. She tried to waddle faster, but her fatigue wore on her quickly and she had to duck into a building to cool off.

The city mall was just a little ways off, and she could just imagine all of the discarded hot dogs and Kandy Korner goodies left behind. So she pushed on, her appetite giving her the energy to move forward.

She reached the doors to the compound after nearly rolling through a Common-filled parking lot to find them barricaded shut. How would she get in now? She was hungry!

A small cat was sitting on an open ledge not too high up, one leg outstretched so its sandpaper-like tongue could cleanse its body. She took in a deep breath and heaved at an angle, catching the creature in mid lick. It shrieked in surprise and fell backwards inside, covered from head to toe in sticky green bile.

Charlie stumbled out of the way as forty or fifty of her more Immune-resembling cousins charged at the doors with a righteous and hungry fury. The Plexiglas bent and groaned as they pushed against it, watching their future meal rub at its eyes with two angry clawed paws.

A crack from a fist made her grin. Just a little while longer, and she would be swimming in lollipops and gummy bears. Finally, the barrier gave way and the primal monsters charged at the terrified feline, trampling each other to get the first mouthful. Once they had cleared the entryway, the Boomette shuffled inside and began to explore.

She ignored the Macys and Payless, uninterested in what feeble labels remained stocked in the back or on the shelves. Like anything in half of these stores would fit her. She looked like she was forever pregnant, something that got her teased a lot before the Infection came along.

Charlie finally saw salvation: the Kandy Korner, still with the gate intact locked up, every shelf stocked to the brim with goodies. She was so happy, she could drop to her knees and cry. But that would waste precious time that she could spend eating.

She approached the gate carefully and touched it. Nothing. No alarms. And silent alarms were not a problem for anyone anymore. The police were either dead or being eaten alive right now anyway. She wrapped her meaty fingers around the links of the gate and pulled as hard as she could. Her grip soon slipped and she flew back, landing on her back a few feet away.

She huffed and rubbed her angry stomach. No Trolli candies today…so she carefully made her way to the nearest exit, following her nose in hopes of sustenance. No one around to stop her, but still not a thing to eat.


	7. GONGOOZLER

**GONGOOZLER – (n) an idle spectator**

Mario had finally found Avarice. He had followed some unknown trail, somehow sensing the direction that the ebony Witch had taken. His heart had led the way...to return the charm that had to be hers. He wasn't in love with her. No. Not even a little. Even if he was intoxicated by her dark chocolate skin. Such a rich brown color...

He shook his head furiously to dispel the arousing thoughts. It was wrong. Morally wrong. She was a monster. They could never be together, no matter how much he wanted to. Not that he wanted to...He peeked between the bushes at the Witch. He wanted to approach her but...

He couldn't right well approach her now. She was…well…she wasn't decent.

The Witch wasn't looking at him, but she was facing his direction, and he could see everything. She was in a river up to her waist, her little articles of clothing discarded at the bank to replace later. Her hair covered her chest quite well, but he couldn't stop staring. Especially at her skin, which invited his eyes to trace. She was riddled with light and heavy scars alike, though they only made her body more captivating to him. He took notice of how she worked at a spot on her right shoulder with a scrunched face and his heart clenched. Had she been shot by that Immune? Was the bullet still lodged in her arm? Did she need help?

A sudden rustle of leaves above sent a powerful jolt of electricity up his spine and he readied his gun for what may approach. The rustles flew overhead and from the next tree dropped a Jockey, the pink, primate-like creature bouncing over with a potato sack the same size as he over one shoulder.

Avarice noticed the creature and cooed approvingly, moving towards the bank with an outstretched hand. He placed his treasures on the ground carefully and rummaged through the contents quickly, pulling out a jar of amber honey. The Witch's smile grew exponentially and she drew the smaller, twitching body into an embrace, placing what resembled a kiss upon his forehead.

Mario felt his stomach churn with...jealousy? For a Witch? Never! That was absurd! Unthinkable. Unrealistic...and completely and utterly true. He wished he knew why. It wasn't as if the ebon female was his. She probably didn't even remember him.

Sadly, as his heart continued to sink into his stomach, he watched the Jockey offer sweet fruits and bloodied fingers to his companion, who gladly took each item and dunked them into the sticky container. She would then slowly retract her fingers, as if to ensure every bit of honey stayed where it was, and drew her digits into her mouth, purring audibly as she sucked every ounce of the viscous fluid free.

The Jockey watched, enthralled by the goddess beside him, and handed her more and more goodies, trembling with excitement. Mario just glared at the small creature. Oh, how badly he wanted to drive a bullet through its skull for even knowing the Witch.

Avarice stopped, a trail of liquid gold slipping from her slightly parted lips. She turned her head slowly, assessing her surroundings, before rising from her seat. She moved towards Mario's spot, turning her head every now and again to try and see. Part of Mario wanted to back away as quickly as he could, but he could smell the honey on her breath. It beckoned him to lick, to taste, to feel.

He didn't realize how far forward he was leaning until he was on the ground, hands outstretched before him. He was lying in her shadow, waiting for retaliation. But, instead, she knelt beside him and sniff at his hair. He shivered as her cool breath glossed over his searing skin. She muttered something and helped him to his haunches, giving him a look of curiosity.

Mario reached slowly for his pocket, pulling forth her charm bracelet. He undid the clasp and reattached it around her left wrist. She pulled back after a moment and he watched her face. She didn't make any discernible facial expression.

"It is yours...right?" he asked, hoping for some sort of answer.

She looked back at him, her sky blue eyes glossing over his face. He couldn't comprehend the next few seconds, but when he did get his mind right, he was tasting honey. Lots of honey. A light pressure was pulled away and a cheerful murmur drowned him.

Avarice pulled him over to where the Jockey was watching, slack-jawed, and sat the Immune beside her, digging out a strawberry and covering it in honey. She pulled the ripe fruit from the jar and held it to Mario's mouth. He stared at the amber fluid drizzling down her fingers. It wouldn't hurt to try just one. She _was_ offering.

He leaned forward and bit into the juicy conical fruit, his taste buds overwhelmed with sugar. Too sweet. Extremely too sweet. He tried not to spit it back out, swallowing multiple times to try and dilute the sugar left in his mouth.

She smiled and licked the remaining honey happily from her fingers. She curled beside him and continued to eat. Mario was warm inside, her body breathing against his. But he couldn't keep his eyes off of the Jockey on the other side of the female. He was glaring angrily at the Immune.

Something told him that he and the Infected male weren't going to be friends so easily.


	8. HAMARTITHIA

**HAMARTITHIA – (adj) being likely to make a mistake**

The Tank slunk down the streets, the _pop_ of the Hunter's skull still echoing violently in his ears. He felt wrong. It was wrong. _Murder was wrong_. Before the infection, the outbreak, the chaos, he would've been arrested and put on trial. He'd be labeled a murderer and put on Death Row for months before the Grim Reaper came to steal his life.

He shuffled along as silently as he could, grunting every now and again at the exertion on his muscles. He hated this life. He just wanted to die. Maybe he should run off of a building or a cliff or drown himself in a lake. Yeah, the lake…

He stopped as the familiar gurgle of a Boomer found his ears. He grunted. They followed food. He was getting hungry. The Tank came to a stop and waited. Hopefully, it wouldn't run from him.

The shadow of the teetering ballooned individual peered around the corner before he saw its face. Or, rather, _her_ face. His chest tightened. He recognized this girl. Charlie.

She didn't see him right away, rubbing her swollen stomach in pain. The Tank grunted softly and her eyes shot in his direction. They tightened into slits too quickly for his comfort and she turned on her heels (which was a spectacle all of its own) and moved away from him.

The Tank took after the Boomette in a hurry, moving one hand into her path. She turned, cheeks puffed out in anger. He took a deep breath, determined to form words for the first time.

"Ssssssrrrryyyy…"

She snorted and turned away. He tried again.

"Sssssoooorrrrryyyy…"

"Shut the hell up!" she barked rather clearly, moving from the small area with a bit of trouble.

He followed her after letting her move far enough ahead, trying desperately to determine how to convey his feelings. What was he to do?

He stopped before a building and noticed something. Quickly, as to not lose sight of the Boomette, he ducked inside and grabbed the remaining bag of Reese's Minis. Maybe this will make her feel better.

He took off after her as fast as his thin legs would allow, grunting and hooting all the way. He finally caught up with her and stopped, taking a second to catch his breath. She glowered even darker, one hand on her hip.

"What do you want?"

He gave a small smile and offered her the bag. She stared at it. Suddenly, she puked all over the bag and his hand. He reeled back in confusion, and she spat at him again.

"You know I'm allergic! You haven't changed a bit, Tyce! You're still the heartless asshole you were back then!"

She stormed off, a small collection of Commons moving for the Tank. He swatted them away, torn in two. She still hated him…

…but she remembered his name.


	9. INANILOQUENT

**INANILOQUENT – (adj) speaking foolishly or saying silly things**

Avarice was fascinated by this Immune. He spoke the silliest of words, trying to tell her things that she was just never meant to understand. He touched her charm and skin and jabbered on. The sounds mingled into strange Infected language that she could almost for certain tell wasn't what he meant to say.

The Jockey avoided direct contact with the Immune, even in their sleeping pile. She wasn't used to being in the center of a pile. It was too warm. At one point, she had scurried free and gone off to be in the coldest corner she could find. The next morning, the Immune looked upset that she had moved from the pile.

One day, she took to a tree, wishing to be alone. The Jockey was missing, probably to bring her more food to munch on. She was getting antsy. The Immune was cleaning his hurtful stick, muttering to himself aloud. She didn't like the fact that he kept it up and running: she was volatile and could eviscerate anything that dared to attack her. Maybe he was expecting her to lose her temper, take out anger on him.

A tear dribbled down her cheek. She wasn't a monster. Not like the other criers. Not like other...she shuddered at the thought of the derogatory nickname bestowed upon her kind. Witches, as far as she could recall, were hated by people. They wore their manes pointed and flew on sticks and people burned them.

A sudden explosion rocked her from the tree and she tumbled to the ground, landed strangely on her side. A sharp pinch overcame her right side and she shrieked in pain. The Immune hurried over, kneeling by her side. He blabbered on, trying to calm her. But she was frightened. The noise, the sound, the memory.

_She didn't know what to do. Red was painting everything she saw, expect for the black blood that was seeping through her veins. This creature, who looked similar to the one in the kitchen, was trembling and fumbling with metal casings. She charged with a single screech and tore through his chest. It opened its mouth to cry out in its terrified language when she drove her free hand through its neck. The red began to fade as depression crawled through her veins. She took off, its undecipherable sounds ringing in its ears._

She pushed up with a gargled cry and couldn't feel her side. The Immune was pressing something into her side that made everything fuzzy. She fell against him, his too-cold skin against her burning flesh. She felt sick and tired at the same time. What was happening? What had the Immune don...


	10. JUDDER

**JUDDER – (n) strong vibration in an aircraft**

"Hang on, everybody!" Jennifer called through the speaker. Turbulence had wrapped around the plane in a vice and was threatening to send them crashing into Infected territory. She pulled on the controls, trying desperately to bring them out of the killer nose dive.

She could hear her sister screaming in gibberish, the monster fetus within her dripping bad blood in her veins. Her heart clenched. Damn it all. If only the docs at the center had looked at her earlier, they wouldn't have to go find another camp with the "proper materials and equipment suitable for her...um...condition." They knew she was infected. Her husband as well.

Another group of crows crashed into the plane as one engine blew, sending the metal bird into a swirling nosedive. Jennifer tried as hard as she could to aim for a clearing, for the water so an imminent explosion wouldn't destroy them all.

A small lake was nearby, but it looked too far to make. The door opened with a slam.

"Are we almost there yet?! I don't think Phylis is gonna make it!" Zakaree bellowed over the disastrous blaring of the panel.

"I'm trying, dammit! Sit down!"

The plane rocked even harder as gravity drew them closer. She could see just how much farther they had to go. The lake, it was too far. They were all going to die.

She closed her eyes in a silent prayer.

_Father in Heaven above, please bless my soul and the souls of those with me. We have too much unwanted and tainted blood, Father, but I know You will help us ascend into Heaven. Please, Father, please...don't let us become them._

The nose scrunched, glass shattered, and metal groaned and screamed at the plane dove into the wet muck and flipped onto its back, fire eating away at the crash and anything it could reach inside.

The hours ticked by as Commons assessed the damage, too terrified of the flames to get closer but still hungry enough to stay close. Where there was a fresh wreck, there was food.

"...alive..."

Jennifer groaned and rubbed at her eyes. Everywhere she thought, pain was right there. A bright light blinded her and she shrouded her eyes.

"...nyy..."

"Ugh...whathappen..."

"Jenny..." It was Zakaree's voice, only much more gravelly.

"Zak..."

"Jenny, don't move. I need to find the med kit."

She groaned and relaxed, cold wrapping around the joints in her body. _Was this death?_ she thought to herself. _This is nice...very nice..._


	11. KEF

**KEF – (n) state of dreamy or drug-induced repose**

Avarice rubbed at her eyes, the dim light forcing her pupils to focus. She couldn't hear anything, similar to when water was sloshing around her brain. Some unseen force tugged on her leg and she whimpered. At least the pain from earlier was gone.

"Honey?" came an unfamiliar, yet calming voice.

Another tug came from the other direction, this time upon her chest and harder than before.

"Honey, wake up..."

She groaned and blinked as a small circle of light grew wider. The first thing she noticed was the Immune. His face was clean-shaven, older, wiser. It was almost like she was looking at a completely different person.

"There we go. Upsa-daisy."

Her throat was raw and her body numb. Something sticky was covering her skin, she could feel it. Where was she?

"Come on, Avarice. Lemme help you up."

"No..." she ground out, stunned by the tone of her own voice. Did she just...speak?

He laughed at her softly, still snaking his arms at the back of her knees and neck. He lifted her up and she found her side pressed against his chest. Her skin was just as brown as the floor below. His was so pale. Such a difference.

He led her through a door with more light, walls the color of sunlight. She could feel the moisture in the air as he brought her to a strange looking bowl. He took a seat on the edge and swung her into it, her body sinking into the soft foam. Water was below, sloshing and swimming around the new form. The clouds that floated beside her popped softly in her face, a strange experience. He went to move his hands away and she locked onto his wrist.

"No," she whispered.

"Don't worry, Avarice. I'm not going anywhere," he chuckled, still moving his hands. He rose from his spot and she whimper and repeated that single-syllable, two-letter combination. "Let me get your wash cloth, at least. It's here in the cabinet." He opened a second door and retrieved something in a flash, a square of fabric. He made his way back over and entered the water behind her, the level rising even higher on her body. He took up a handful of liquid and poured it down her back slowly, the heated bath soothing her tired muscles.

Mario bathed the ebon Witch slowly, careful to keep her upright and not to tear on her stitches. She muttered "no" and purred in her sleep as he bathed her with a square of his jacket. She nuzzled back into his chest and his cheeks began to burn. Just give her a bath. Just a bath...just a bath...

He found himself nuzzling back, kissing the side of her face and neck smoothly. The door creaked open and he stared at the Jockey, who was glaring madly, but didn't attack. Instead, the little Infected roommate scurried to his corner and curled up into a ball, remaining in that position in silence.

Mario didn't need to speak the Infected language. That Jockey blamed him for her injuries. Somehow, Mario knew it was his fault, but knew it wouldn't change the outcome. As long as the Witch continued to heal, maybe the hunchbacked crawler would open up to him. He hoped he would.


	12. LALOCHEZIA

**LALOCHEZIA – (n) the use of foul or abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain**

"Son of a bitch!" Zakaree cried out in pain. He was tossing and turning in his room, having locked the door to keep his wife and sister-in-law from seeing him sweat. And was he ever sweating. Another muscle felt like it was folding upon itself and he cried out another obscenity.

"Zak!" came the worried voice of his impregnated wife. "Open the door, baby. Please!"

"No! I'm fine!" he lied, biting down another harsh word. His arm was burning like the pits of Hell and he hated it. It looked too pale to be fine, like it was dying alongside him.

His chest shot out in pins and needles and he cried out a "bitch!" too loud for comfort. Sure, the cursing was unnecessary, but it helped, believe it or not.

"Zak! Please! Let me help you!"

_You can't help me, Lissi,_ he thought through the agony. _I just hope today isn't the day that I leave you..._


	13. MACROSMATIC

**MACROSMATIC – (adj) having a good sense of smell**

Arson's feet drew through the water. At least it had stopped pouring down gallons of murky sky water. He took in a deep breath and immediately regretted the action, his lungs curling in an unseen fire. He hacked up a rather large cloud of smoke and groaned at the pain in his chest.

Slowly, he went on, unsure as to where Wyatt would be, if he was ali—No. The Hunter was still alive. He could feel it in his heart, that warm spot that gave him hope that his lover was both safe and sound. As the clouds tore open to reveal a more than welcome sun, he wiped the water from his blond hair with one hand.

He trekked on aimlessly, trying to find something that would lead him to the Hunter. He was ready to call it quits, the chilled air getting to him, when his foot hit something. He bent down for the shining charm and lifted it into his palm. It was a familiar looking golden watch, with W&A etched professionally on the back. His heart clenched.

This was Wyatt's. Whenever the Hunter went out, even for a walk, he placed the faulty timepiece in his back pocket, as a good luck charm of sorts. It was cracked along the face and the minute hand was scrunched upon itself angrily. Arson could feel his heart cracking. Did this mean something terrible had happened?

"Wyatt!" he called out, beginning to worry for the first time since the dreaded storm had started. "Wyatt!"

He scaled a building and scanned the city. He couldn't tell the original Commons from his dear Hunter. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes. Was this the end of everything? Did he have a reason to live anymore?

Suddenly, he got a waft of toxic Spitter bile. It wasn't normal, thought. It smelled like him. Like Wyatt! He hurried towards the scent as fast as his feet would allow, excited and terrified at the same time. Spitters were furiously hateful towards Hunters.

He found a Spitter compound and entered the building casually, a few of the acid-eaten females approaching him with a gurgle-like purr. He tried his best to avoid their advances without having to come in contact with their flaking skin. His nose was overwhelmed with the scent of hydrochloric acid and bile, but he was sure that the younger male wasn't on this floor. He found a stairwell and climbed to the second floor, stepping over some sleeping critters and corpses. His stomach churned. Even for the zombie apocalypse, this was disgusting.

The second floor was cleared as well, if his nose could be trusted, and he ascended even higher. His fingers were still clutching the good luck charm, hoping some of its luck would fall on him.

The stench of Spitters and decay were even stronger on the third floor and he covered his nose and mouth. There wasn't much of a fourth floor, so Wyatt must be here.

"Wyatt!" he called down the hall. His lungs protested and he hacked up a rather large cloud of smog. He took a second to calm his nerves and listen. A door at the end of the corridor opened with a creak and he wanted to cry out in joy.

Wyatt was rubbing at his eyes in a tired manner, sniffling softly. "Arson?" He sniffed the air and the next thing Arson knew, his lover was trembling in his grasp and tears were soaking his already damp shirt. His hand rubbed at the smaller's back and murmured sweet nothings. Arson could hear words such as "cold" and "terrified" and "death". His heart was conflicted. He was overjoyed that his lover was in his arms again.

But the traumatic incident made him regret his decision not to follow the smaller like he used to do.

"I'm sorry," Arson muttered, pulling Wyatt away to kiss some of his tears away. "I should have been here. I should have kept you safe."

"Shuddap, Arson," Wyatt muttered.

"Come on, babe," the Smoker whispered, lifting the Hunter into a bridal carry. "Let's get home. Your parents must be ripping their heads off with worry."


	14. NEPHELIGENOUS

**NEPHELIGENOUS – (adj) producing clouds of tobacco smoke**

Vance was desperately in need of a cigarette. His nerves were eating away at him and he knew that as each second ticked away, his patience grew exponentially shorter. Looking upon the city swimming with corpses and Commons was not helping in the slightest. He had no clue where his son was, dead or alive. And Arson...while he was hard on the teen, they weren't that different. They both were stubborn, hardheaded boys. He was just being as tough on the younger boy as his dad was on him, eons ago.

A soft claw landed on his shoulder and a worried face nuzzled his neck. He reached a hand up and rubbed at the soft hair.

"I'm worried."

"I know you are, honey," Landon purred, slipping a hand around the taller's waist. A box of Newports were in his clawed hand. "Take one. It'll calm you down."

Shakily, as if suddenly unsure about how much he needed the cancer stick, he opened the pack and withdrew one. If Landon hated that he smoked, why give him one?

"Because," Landon began with a calm voice, "if you don't, when the boys come home, you'll go absolutely insane and heavens knows what you'll do then."

"Is my temper really that bad?"

"Do Witches cry?"

Vance sighed and lit his cigarette, placing it between his dry lips and taking a deep breath. The cloud of green smoke filtered from his pores, forcing his lover to step back. The sudden warmth in his body was nothing compared to the coldness in his heart.

He wanted his son back. And that boy Arson too. As long as they're safe and happy, he should be too. He took another drag and sighed as more smoke swirled within and around him.

The stub of the smoke fell to the floor, a neat little pile he planned to clean up later. He cracked open the window and let the moist air clear out the remnants of smoke.

"Feel better now?" Landon asked.

Vance just nodded. The sun felt great on his face. He turned to his lover and pulled him into a soft hug. He looked down upon his ginger mate and smiled.

"As long as we're together..." Vance began.

"...nothing can tear us apart."

The door opened and they turned to see Arson carrying an unconscious Wyatt. All hope and joy left. The smaller Hunter didn't look like he was breathing.

Arson's face was full of joy. "He's safe. Just tired."

Landon leapt over and scooped his son from the Smoker teen's arms, hurrying for the boy's bedroom in the back. He removed the hoodie and jeans from his son before placing him onto the sheets, rubbing at his forehead tenderly. Wyatt's face relaxed in his slumber.

Vance approached Arson slowly, his smoke cloud fading calmly. The younger coughed awkwardly before taking a deep breath. "Sir...I need to talk to you about something."


	15. ONYCHOPHAGY

**ONYCHOPHAGY – (n) the habit of biting one's fingernails**

"Oww!"

Charlie sucked on one finger, her pointer. She had been chewing on her nails so viciously, she had chewed nearly half her finger off. Her black blood tasted bitter, but it was something to taste. For days she had been searching for food, only to find nothing. And Tyce...he brought her the little food he could find, but she was too bitter to accept it.

If only he was around now. She needed food.

She pulled her fingers out of her mouth at the smell of something burning nearby. IT smelled good. Fresh. Tasty. She didn't even realize that she was running until she tripped and rolled into the side of a building.

A hand helped her back to her feet and she gasped a "thanks" before looking up. Her heart nearly exploded within her chest.

Tyce was standing before her, mouth drawn into a tight line. His eyes were searching for a response. His other hand was hidden behind his back, and an absolutely scrumptious smell was coming from his hidden hand.

"Oookkaayyy?" he asked.

She nodded, her vision skewed but her sense of smell blossoming. It was meat. Clean meat. _Fresh clean meat_. She didn't realize she was drooling until the front of her shirt began to stick more than usual.

He brought out an arm, a fat and meaty one at that. She snatched it from his grasp and quickly ripped a bite from it. The taste, the scent, the blood. It was euphoric. She moaned at the flavor. Oh, how she needed food. Once the first three or five bites were down her throat, she wiped her mouth and smiled at the Tank.

"Thank you, Tyce. I needed that..."

He smiled, a few of his front teeth missing. It was charming, in a strange way. But she still felt hatred towards him. All the teasing. Bullying. High school was a living hell, because of him. How did she know he didn't taint this with peanut butter? She forced herself not the wretch up the meager contents of her stomach.

He nodded and limped away from her, as if he knew. She wanted to follow, to call him back, but everything hurt.

Had he changed? Was she the one holding onto a petty grudge?


	16. PAUCILOQUENT

**PAUCILOQUENT – (adj) uttering few words; brief in speech**

Tyce continued past the plane wreckage away from the Boomette. He did her a favor; that was all he wanted to do. If that got her to stop hating him, that was all he would ever need and he could die happy.

He ducked into his shelter and climbed the only sturdy pair of stairs to the fifth floor and his broken apartment. It was too early for him to be exerting this kind of energy; he was a night hunter, not a day one.

He curled onto his pile of collected clothing and stared at the broken window. A bluebird had perched itself upon the sill, turning its tiny head in curiosity towards the behemoth. It hopped into the room and over towards him, still turning its head every now and again.

He glanced before him at a pile of hardened bread that he had been using as a pillow. He slowly reached around and brought it to his lap.

"Bbbrreeeeaaddd?" he asked in a slow, gravelly voice.

He tore open the wrapping between two fingers and poured crumbs into his hand. The bird hopped even closer and onto his calloused skin. He held perfectly still as it pecked away the meager crumbs.

"Gooooddddd bbiiiirrrdddddiiiieeee."

It felt nice to be able to just sit, with the cutest creature sitting upon his palm. It felt nice to be human again. Or, to be as close as possible.


	17. QUAB

**QUAB – (v) to throb or quiver**

Jennifer's scars were throbbing, and the cold, water-flodded ground was seeping into her skin. With the deaths of Phylis and Zakaree, she hadn't had much incentive to move. Their shared room was eerily quite, with the occasional squeak of the bed. She didn't dare open the door. The sight was still burned deep into her brain, and her empty stomach folded once again.

Lissi's stomach and pelvis were coated in a thick, green coat of slime. A hole the size of her fist was being eaten away by the gunk, and she was almost sure that she could see the fetus kicking within the gaping wound. Her lower jaw was hinged on by a thin strand of muscle, and more acid was pouring over her neck and breasts. Her eyes were glazed over, facing the door, almost reflective. Jennifer had thrown up violently at the sight, she almost didn't see Zakaree in his condition.

His skin had peeled away on one arm, and its smell resembled that of beef jerky. His muscles were bulging through what little clothing had remained on his corpse. One arm had been ripped off and a pool of blood was next to the clawed appendage. His face was scrunched in pain, one eye socket gouged away by a bird, she assumed.

Her body convulsed and she dry heaved for what felt like an hour. The room went black and all she could hear was the calls of her brother-in-law and sister back before hell showed up on their front door.


	18. RHONCHISONANT

**RHONCHISONANT – (adj) making a snorting or snoring sound**

The Jockey sat hunched in a corner, eager for the ebon female to open her sky-colored eyes, to lick fresh goblets of liquid gold from his fingers, just to move again. She had been in her state of deep sleep for what felt like ages, the occasional sniffle and sigh gracing her lips. The Jockey hoped she would awake everyday, and it hurt him to know that everyday she stayed in her catatonic state, it meant that, maybe, she didn't want to awaken.

The Immune spent many hours tending to the injured female, changing her worn bandages with a careful touch. The time he spent away from the Witch was used to hunt for food and honey. The Jockey stayed to guard the fort, his laughter keeping many brethren at bay. Who knew that such a noise could be hated by all so equally? Only the Witch had ever heard the noise and come _towards_ him, into his sight and reach. Only she accepted his presence, annoying laughter and all.

A few times, the two males had attempted to exchange conversation, learning each other's language. Although, for the Quasimodo-resembling creature, trying to pronounce Immune noises may have been even harder than dodging a near-death drop from atop a building more than eight stories high, an irate Tank blocking the only other way off of the rooftop. He ignored the memory and simply stuck to what he knew, which was Infected.

The two would take walks along the compound, staying close enough to hear Avarice should she awaken from her slumber. The Jockey would point to objects he knew with a crooked finger and slowly pronounce the word. The Immune would try to mimic the noise as best he could, but it just didn't sound authentic. It could have been that the Infection brought forth a disease of the larynx that created a unique amount of damage. Of course, the Jockey could understand his brothers and sisters perfectly, as could Hunters to Huntresses and female Witches to males. Interspecies communication was basic, but certain words, such as "hunt" and "enemy" and "food", were different because not all Infected ate the same meat. Jockeys preferred chewy meals that had lots of meat, while Tanks enjoyed a nice, lean crunch, and Smokers went for anything "clean", as if it would purge them.

After a nice hour or so of trying to learn, they retreated inside to a meal and rest, each of them alternating nights where they kept the ebon Witch company in sleep. Tonight was the Jockey's night, but he insisted that the Immune take his place. He noticed the connection between the two, how much he cared about her. It was a foreign sensation to witness, something that he couldn't quite remember the name of. It made him warm in the chill of the night, knowing that the Immune would surely bring back their dear friend.


	19. SANQUINOLENCY

**SANQUINOLENCY – (adj) being addicted to bloodshed**

Tyce finally left his house after a long few hours of restless sleep. His humanity and patience were growing thin as time dredged on. He needed an outlet, something he could destroy without feeling too bad about himself. Maybe another Hunter…he shuddered slightly at the memory, a welcome feeling of relaxation overcoming him.

With a grunt of effort, he made his way outside back towards the wreckage he had seen earlier. The group of Commons surrounding the lake had multiplied, the flames keeping them at bay. He could smell the fresh scent of death and infection, and a soft sound seemed to come from the broken hull. He knocked a few hungry brothers out of the way with a sweep of his fist and trampled those who fell in his path.

The wreckage was still fairly fresh. Ending the life of one who was already on the brink of death would not only satisfy his animalistic needs, but his moral standards as well. He crushed more forgotten mothers, fathers, sisters, brother, his own bloodlust driving him forward into the water.

The chilly liquid sloshed around him like a typhoon as he dug a path towards his smoldering prize. The mud gathered around his bare feet and legs like leeches as murky lake water and engine oil got under his arms. He finally came up to the hull of the vessel and found the opening that split it down the middle. He took in a deep breath and grunted.

Nothing. Empty. No worried breathes, no fresh vomit, no blood smears or pools of sweat. Just the scent of brethren and the faded flavor of immunity.

Tyce backed away in time to see a Smoker moving along the shore line, ignoring him. A Hunter was crouched beside him, having stopped only briefly to rummage through his wake. How dare that hooded _thing _loot while he rummage through crap! God, but did he need to spill blood. He roared at the Infected pair, who started and took off away from the carnage.

The Tank lowered his authoritative stance and went back to land, his bloodlust having subsided after a moment. He didn't have the energy to chase after those two and mutilate them. Maybe he would wander around until time stopped him.

Or death. Whichever blessed him with its touch first.


	20. TRYPALL

**TRYPALL – (n) tall, lanky, slovenly person**

Phylis stood by the window with her back to him, the glass barrier open to the world and her bare frame. The towel she had around her body earlier was dropped around her feet in a puddle. Zakaree could only sit with his back to the wooden door at the other end of the room, the only safe exit, and watch. Something in his heart was telling him to approach her, to comfort her, but he knew better. The still bleeding cut along his bulked forearm was warning enough, although he didn't feel a thing.

"Baby," he grunted, his throat raw and still trying to adjust to his formation.

She hissed loudly at him, but didn't move any other muscles. He stared at her pale skin, the perfect curvature that outlined everything he loved about his wife. If she weren't so pissed at the world, and at him, he was almost positive that they would be staining the bedsheets.

They stayed like that for another twenty minutes before he got up to go into the adjacent room. The door creaked but he left it open, to hear her before he saw her. The room was bathed in the smell of food, some of his favorites: bratwursts, fried chicken, and steak. Medium-rare steaks that were still so juicy, with that pink center and the slightest dollop of blood…his stomach demanded sustenance. But he calmed himself and went about his task.

Jennifer was laying on her side on the living room couch, sweat dotting her forehead as she tried to relax. A pool of vomit was right over the side of the couch, the smell having dissipated with time. He reached into a nearby bucket of melting ice for a towel to wipe her face with. She shivered at the cold item, but visibly relaxed. Her broken leg was healing nicely, and her concussion was fading with each passing day. Sometimes, she would wake up and he could hear her wandering inside, looking for food or a pencil and paper.

Phylis and Zakaree silently agreed that they wouldn't come in contact with their companion. At least, physically. The door only locked and unlocked from their side of the room, and her sleep schedule had always been predictable. They left her gifts, some of her favorite things when they could find them. It wasn't closure, but it was a close as they could come.

Zakaree went back into the room and noticed that his thin wife was facing him. He stared at her deformed figure stoically. Her jaw was slowly melting away, showing more of her pearly white teeth and her cheekbones than she would like. Her stomach was distended as if she as with child, which he sincerely hoped was true. He loved having her pregnant as much as he did getting her that way.

Her breasts had grown to touch her stomach, one of his old shirts just barely covering the enlargement. She curled her long, chewed-down fingers into fists as the first tear danced down her face.

Zakaree finally spoke. "Baby—"

"Don't 'baby' me!" she screamed, saliva spewing out at him. "_Look at me! _I'm a _monster_! A _fucking_ _monster_! I'm hideous, I can't even talk without spitting _everywhere_ and my nails are filthy! How can you look at me and say you still _love_ me?"

He stared at her. He knew better than to talk. With his luck, he's say something that would set her off and then an already bad day would turn to complete hell.

So, instead, he walked up to her and kissed her softly, pulling her body as close as he could with his one good arm. He pushed back after a minute and got down on one knee to be eye level with her.

"'Til death do us part'. Remember that?"

She sniffled and went to yell about something else when he drew a thick finger over the crook of her left arm with a feather-like touch. Her big brown eyes flickered closed as she forced away an embarrassing moan. Her pale cheeks flushed a bright pink as he continued.

"I love you. Always have. This doesn't change a damn thing. I still want a family with you. A _big_ one. I want us to be happy _together_. So stop talking."

Zakaree kissed his wife hard, pushing her back onto their bed. If words didn't prove his point, he knew what will.


	21. UBIATION

**UBIATION – (n) the act of occupying a new place**

Wyatt laid on his back, too numb to move as his fiancé (he couldn't even _believe _it) showered meticulously. He slowly turned his head to survey his surroundings. This was their home. Some little place next to a park, with the sight of a lake or ocean not too far off. The condo was surprisingly clean when Arson carried him here, as they explored their hidden space. His parents didn't even know where they were, just they were on the outskirts of the city and it would be safe.

The large screen TV didn't work, but the stereo system was still loud and blaring some foreign rock song that got his libido raging. Well, it _had_ it raging before. He tried to sit up, but all his muscles locked up on him and he nearly gave a pained yelp. His hair was finally drying, all the sweat and other fluids on his skin leaving him sticky.

Wyatt tried to recall the past few hours, and just how much Lysol he would need to clean all the furniture. The front door, the front table, the kitchen counters and table, just _everything_. And it wasn't going to get any easier as time passed and everything dried.

The bathroom door creaked open and a rush of hot air hit his face. His lover exited the room with a towel wrapped around his waist and quickly pounced atop him for a kiss.

"Can you move, babe?" the Smoker asked with a sly grin.

"Does it _look_ like I can move? You kinda went to town on me, you know. I'm surprised we made it up the stairs."

Arson kissed his fiancée again before removing himself from the bed, killing the music, and lifting his lover into a bridal carry. With a groan of pain, thy two entered the large king-sized bathroom and made their way over to the porcelain tub. Water steamed and sloshed as the smaller body was gently placed into the tub, a loving grip on his left hand. The Hunter couldn't stop staring at the ring.

It was a simple silver loop that Arson had found near the lake before a Tank had scared them off, just a little thing that held so much meaning when slipped onto his left ring finger. He curled his finger around the Smoker's and nuzzled the back of the hand.

"I love you, Wyatt," Arson whispered against his hair before placing a kiss between the locks.

"I love you more, Arson," was the heartful reply as muscles relaxed once again.

The entire room shook as a squadron of planes passed overhead, though neither male took notice. This was their happily ever after. Nothing could ruin that.


	22. VALETUDINARIAN

**VALETUDINARIAN - (n) a sickly or weak person, especially one who is constantly and morbidly concerned with his or her health**

Jennifer knew it was inside her. In her heart. Her lungs. Her veins. _Everywhere_.

_The Infection_.

She knew that had to be the reason that she was looking and feeling _better_ rather than the expected _worse_. Her wounds were healing nicely, her appetite was returning, and her body was processing her surrounding much more clearly. Her nose, which historically couldn't tell the difference between 3-week-old cheese and a slice of freshly-baked pie, could now detect the stench of baking flesh and freshly spilled blood. There was also something else in the air, wafting from beneath the mysterious locked door. She couldn't quite place the name of it, but she knew it so well.

"Ugh, this…thing has literally soaked into my pores. I don't smell at all," she said to no one in particular. With a big sigh, she went about to prepare a bath and to get her clothing clean as well. She picked at a crusty stain on her shirt with a scrunched face before grabbing at her backpack. The medical kit sat off to the side of the couch omnisciently.

She pictured the contents: gauze, pain medication, bandages, tweezers, a suture kit, antiseptic, blood test, cotton balls, antibacterial wipes, iodine, and a various combination of over-the-counter pills. She had tossed the probably old and ineffective condoms that had made their way inside. A small, undisturbed bag, shielded with black with a female symbol upon it, had been buried at the bottom almost strategically. She had yet to open it, though she was sure of the contents within. Midol, Pamprin, pads, tampons, a pregnancy test or two, and quite possibly some birth control.

She took it up into her arms after a moment of staring. Quickly, she ran for the bathroom, her subconscious afraid a group of those monsters may suddenly materialize and take after her like fresh meat. She locked the bathroom door, taking a pause to gather her thoughts. Tub, then mirror, then bathe, medication, and wash her clothes.

She ran water into the porcelain basin at the far side of the room, testing the temperature with her hand. It was warm, though not nearly hot enough to sterilize anything. Her face drew a shallow frown. She would have to make do. She filled the tub and removed her clothing slowly, careful not to tear any of her finally closing scars wide open. She laid them out in order of removal: pants, shirt, socks, bra, underwear. As she laid her covers down into a pile, she thought about her life briefly. She's always been a creature of such order. So predictable. Maybe even too predictable. She had to learn how to adapt if she was going to survive. Adaptation meant change. An unwanted shudder ran through her.

Very slowly, she placed her socks before her pants.

"Ugh", she groaned. "Don't change it back, Jenn. Just leave it…just leave it."

After taking a couple of deep breaths, she resumed with her tasks. Once she was nude, she moved to the cracked full-length mirror attached to the door to assess the damage. Most of the pus had been drained from her sores. Scabs had overcome her arms and legs from her fights with the Infected and with her sanity.

She lined her fingers over the messy work of her stitching. Some of the threads had frayed and were coming loose. She flicked these gently, a slight grimace of pain and disfavor etching across her face. They would need to be taken out, the wound cleaned thoroughly, and fresh stitches put in. It wasn't going to be an easy job, but that was a task for later. She checked the rest of herself and assured her troubled mine that nothing new was present and nothing old was getting worse.

Jenn grabbed shampoo, conditioner, and the bar of Dove soap from her bag, placing them one at a time on the edge of the basin. She placed a washcloth in the water and laid out a towel to dry herself. The tub wasn't the cleanest thing on the world, but she couldn't afford to be picky.

The injured Immune entered the water slowly, letting her tired muscles submerge under the surface. A sigh of pleasure escaped her chapped lips as she sunk into the warm, wet caress down to her nose. She exhaled heavily, ripples of water running from her face. It felt good to finally not worry about the things of tomorrow. Not to wonder if her friends would be taken by the Infection, either naturally or by the mad scientists. Not to wonder if the barricade would hold against the next Tank or pack of Hunters or horde of Commons.

After another few minutes of soaking and feeling grateful that she was alive, she cleansed herself diligently and, after draining and rerunning fresh water into the basin, dried herself. She twisted her hair into a messy up-do and went to work cleaning her wounds.

For once, as she slit old sutures and prepared new thread, a creak of some sort came from the main room. She almost didn't hear it over the faucet, and she was sure that any other day, she wouldn't have. It was probably just the window or something. This building was old, anyway.

She began to thread the needle through her skin when she heard it again. Another creak was closer than the first, and it was almost right outside of her door. She froze, paralyzed. One of those monsters was in her house! What was it doing? Looking for her? Could it hear her heartbeat as it rammed against het ribcage? Could it smell her fear and blood?

She quickly and silently went for her bag. She prayed her gun was within, but as she dug, her hope faded. Dammit. She must've left it on the counter. Very cautiously, she opened the door and she almost screamed.

A Charger was walking about her "home", but he looked…organized. He didn't bother with her food storages, and he didn't notice her, or try to break down the bathroom door to get at her. He placed a small white box on the counter, and a notebook with what appeared to be a pencil. Another sound came from the other end of the room, and he turned out of the line of sight to address it. The grunts and screeches gave Jenn goose bumps. Was that a Hunter? A Spitter, maybe? She backed away from the door. It would do nothing to protect her the second they decided to attack.

After a few more minutes, there was a click and silence, aside from her internal screams of bloody murder. Why did they torture her? It was a trap! It had to be! She remained curled into the tub, rocking slightly. A plane flew overhead rather closely, rattling the roof and ripping a cry from her throat. She didn't even feel the splintered support beam that had tumbled through the roof, effectively pinning her down.

A door burst open, and she could hear anger, but nothing was definite. The world went black around her and silence swallowed her whole.


	23. WANWEIRD

**WANWEIRD – (n) an unhappy fate**

The ebony Witch stared out of an open window as she sat on the floor, a pile of clothing her cushion. The sun was wrapped in a vicious cloak of gray clouds that showed no chance of opening and allowing the warm ball of light to shine on her face.

The Immune had recently braided her hair down to her hip before leaving the room to do other things. From the sounds and smells, it probably had something to do with food. It made her nauseous, all the different spices and flavors in the air. She ran her fingers over her exposed skin, the shirt-capris combination of clothing Mario had dressed her in having been reduced to a makeshift sports bra and shorts.

The door behind her swung open with a telltale creak. Silence followed, and then the new inhabitant sighed.

"Avarice…why did you…" Mario's voice fell. His bare footsteps came closer before stopping just behind her. His body fell behind her and he leaned towards her, resting his chin on her shoulder and snaking his arms around her waist. She shivered. "If you wanted smaller clothing, I could've just given you some. You didn't have to shred them, you know."

She sighed and continued to stare out of the window. The cloud cover made her sad. It sent a terrible feeling through her heart as thunder cracked like a whip in the distance. Mario's grip grew tighter around her waist and one of his hands ran down her thigh over and over. She shuffled uncomfortably.

Avarice tried to take a deep breath and calm her nerves when a strange scent found her. Under all of the spices laden on his breath, raw meat was strong. The stench of iron brought out a feral need for a fresh kill. After a moment longer of indulging her id with the aroma, she noticed a rather familiar smell. Immune…and Hunter. Her heart skipped a beat. There were no Infected here…

His icy grip grew around her midsection, his fingers skirting dangerously close to her "honey pot", as he called it. She grabbed his wrists with her hands and tried to pry them away with a disapproving "no".

"Just relax, sweetie," he purred in her ear, moving around her to kneel above her lap. He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned away. He glowered at her with red eyes. They were supposed to be brown… "Avarice, I'm not in the mood."

"No," she said sternly, pushing at him with her palms as to avoid tearing into him.

Mario's hands took a hold of her shoulders and he forced her onto her back, knees locked on her hips. She yelped and tensed, shocked at the pain that blossomed from her shoulders as his fingers dug in. He leaned forward, forcing a kiss on her. She thrashed wildly underneath him, her claws piercing the sides of his chest experimentally, with no real fight behind her attack. He growled, but his power on her body only grew stronger.

He snatched her arms above her head, slicing decent markings along her wrists. He licked up the side of her face, one hand groping at her through her clothing. A crooked grin drew across Mario's face as he slipped a hand beneath her shirt. She thrashed and wailed, her cry escalating to a dangerous pitch.

His weight shifted slightly, giving her just enough space. Avarice bucked up into a sitting position, throwing this creature that resembled her friend and lover onto his back. She threw down her hand, stabbing him in his stomach a few inches. He roared and swiped at her, catching her right below her eyes. She stabbed again, scraping down to the bone along his arm. His howl rang in her ears, paralyzing her temporarily.

He pushed her down on her back and tore at her shirt, painting her chest in blood as he stripped her. His maw went down to tear into her neck again, this time aiming for her jugular. Her primal, self-preservation instincts took full control.

The ebony Witch gave a single, heartbroken cry as she jammed her talons into his neck and pulled up, effectively decapitating her assailant. Blood jetted onto her face and mixed with her tears as she bawled. Everything around her was faded and melting, and noises that she hadn't comprehended earlier filled her ears. There was a cry of pain, and sounds of anger. Laughter and screams. Gunshots.

She thrashed her head back and forth, her palms at her ears and claws mere inches from her scalp. Her entire body was racked with tremors as she curled into the fetal position. 'Make it stop', she thought softly to herself as the noises got louder. 'Make it stop. Stop. Stop! STOP!'

Her eyes flew open and they seemed to take forever to focus on what was before her. A larger, fuzzy pink blob became a smaller, bumpy thing that soon was recognizable as a Jockey. The soft whimper of worry that came from his lips was comforting, and dearly missed. He raised his hand and brushed an errant strand of hair off to the side, another sad and confused sound coming from him.

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and gave a small, relieved grin. The Jockey smiled back, though his eyes continued to trace her. She could feel the scars on her body, and her chest was barely covered by…was this a jacket? She could smell Mario on it and it turned her stomach into a pretzel.

Avarice glanced at her claws in dismay. They were painted in tainted blood, and the flesh stuck on her nails bugged her. She flicked her wrist in disapproval, but the skin and muscle remained. She looked to her side and anger bloomed.

A Hunter, or what was left of the beast, was beside her, head missing from its torso. In its claws were parts of her attire. She wanted to stab the thing again for good measure when a thought ran across her mind.

_Mario_…

She scurried to her feet rather quickly. The Immune was nowhere in sight. At least three more dead leapers were sprawled around their makeshift home, but nothing pointed her in the direction of her…she didn't even know what to call him.

She looked at the hunchback below her and watched as he scurried off at a normal pace, no urgency in his scamper. Her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. She followed behind slowly, fighting back tears as they stepped into the sunlight. To feel the warm glow of that giant cosmic ball made her sigh contently, but the fuzzy feeling left soon after.

Avarice followed the Jockey along a trail of corpses, blood smears, and disturbed flora, her eyes scanning every face. Mario was, thankfully, not among those she had seen, but the distance the pair was having to travel made her stomach sick. If she had not been injured, she could've helped. Maybe he…she stopped her thoughts as the pink Infected paused.

Mario's body was near a river, unmoving. She rushed over and stared down at her fallen friend, her knees buckling beneath her. She dropped to her knees, tears already dotting his chest. No. No. This can't be. Her body trembled as she sobbed, face buried in the scarred chest beneath her.

The last feeling she felt towards the reminder of him was anger. She didn't get to apologize. She didn't get to say anything to him. Her voice was stolen from her. She carefully took the pads of her palms and caressed the sides of his face, wiping away drying blood and mud. She gave a small smile at an almost peaceful look beneath all the grime.

"Mmmmmaaaaarrrriiiioooo" she spoke, the syllables harder to get out now that she was conscious. The ebon crier bent low and touched her lips to the cold, purple ones below her. Their noses touched and she sat there, rocking, her tears finally gone.

The Jockey was silent, Avarice noticed, and looked up at the miniature creature she came to love as a child. She gave the body one final kiss and stood when something stopped her. Her wrist was being held by Mario's hand. A puzzled look etched her face as she tried to move again.

The grip tightened.

Mario opened his eyes and they found her face immediately. She took notice of his eyes. One was the normal, rich oak brown, but the other was a fierce fire red. The Jockey gave a chortle of joy as the half-breed rose into the sitting position with ease, still focused on the Witch. He scurried over and hugged his male companion.

Mario didn't speak. He pulled her close in a flash and kissed her gently.

"**Avarice,**" he said in almost perfect Infected tongue. "**You are okay.**"

She nodded and kissed him once more fiercely before hugging him and their "child" tight. A group of planes flew overhead, but she didn't care. The two creatures she had come to love were safe. That was all that mattered.


	24. XERTZ

**XERTZ – (v) to gulp down quickly and greedily**

Charlie watched Tyce from a distance with immense apprehension. He kept glancing in her direction, but neither of them attempted to advance. She wanted him to acknowledge her, to try to come closer to her and talk to her in that smitten broken-mouth way of his. Ever since…god, when was it? The last time they spoke, he gave her food and then walked away. It was so unlike the both of them, her for being so skeptical about the one person she could recall from her past, and him to be so kind and caring towards her.

Her stomach grumbled. Didn't she just eat something? But it wasn't the same. It wasn't from the Tank. He knew what she liked. Maybe he was looking for food. That was why she followed him, wasn't it? Because she was starving all over again, and she hated to feel this way, to feel like the fatass she was. GOD! Why the hell were the only things on her mind Tyce and food?! And the former usually had the latter as some point. DAMN! She stopped in her tracks and stared at herself. More like, what she could see. Her fingers were like giant Vienna sausages attached to a puff-pastry of a hand.

Her distended stomach just stared at her. She didn't know what her legs or feet looked like. Only when she walked did the fat shift and she peeked at her toes, even if it only lasted for a second. She chewed on her nails until they were ugly, ragged edges because she'll be damned if her mouth wasn't working for more than a few minutes. She stooped above a piece of broken glass and stared at her face.

Beady piggy eyes stared back at her with such hatred that she glared, and that angry, ugly visage turned into such a distorted look, she could have been in the horror film industry. A single tear slithered down her face in a race along the rolls of her face before she dropped to her knees and vomited violently on that mirroring surface. After the initial burst, as her stomach churned up more bile, she shoved her fingers as far down her gullet as she could and held it until she puked again, more pain stabbing at her. And she repeated the pattern until she dry-heaved, tears running down her face.

A large shadow covered her and a grunt of worry found her ears, but she just shook her head and continued to cry, curling beside her mess. The engine of an overhead plane calmed her. Maybe they were going to kill everything. Maybe she could finally end her inner turmoil. She closed her eyes as another wave of nausea slammed into her, although she had nothing left within her to relinquish. She didn't feel anything other than the cold that emanated from her body. She closed her eyes and faded from the hell surrounding her, unaware of the presence protecting her.

Charlie woke up in an awkward, but relaxed manner, body splayed out atop something unfamiliar, but not unwanted. She blinked away the harsh glare of light and yawned, rubbing at her eyes with a balled fist. Her voice was gone to her, but for once, her stomach was at ease. She looked at everything but saw nothing as her brain replayed the events that led to her misplacement.

A noise stopped her train of thought and she started up, painfully aware of just how unsettled her stomach still was. It folded upon itself and crunched, causing her to hunch forward. A soft grunt caught her attention and she lifted her head to see Tyce holding a bowl and a box. The box had pictures of saltine crackers on it, and she was sure they were stale, but the gesture warned her heart. She took it and the bowl full of surprisingly clean water into her possession. She munched on half of the crackers, which automatically soothed her insides, and the entire bowl of water chased down the dry food.

With a sigh, she placed them off to the side and rolled over to get more sleep. It was then she noticed everything smelled of the Tank, and it lulled her back into REM with ease.


	25. YEPSEN

**YEPSEN – (v) to cup one's hands to form a dish for water**

Phylis took water up in her hand and ran it down the dead woman's face, trying to wash away the blood. Zakaree was out in the living room, cursing at himself for not checking the house better when they first moved in. The Spitter tried not to drool on her sister, knowing very well that her acid would eat away at the lifeless skin. Water drizzled through her fingers as she froze, a single tear cascading down her face.

She knew something would happen. Jenn always got the bad end of the deal. When they were younger, if she got a cough, her older sister was bed-ridden with the flu for weeks. If Phylis had an itch, Jenn had chicken pox or poison ivy. Phylis would scrape her knee, and Jenn would effectively break a bone or dislocate a joint or tear a tendon, and on one occasion, all three. It was a miracle that time had turned the hands of fate. Jenn survived the plane crash with a concussion. She remained Immune. She got better, and now…

"Lissi…" came the voice of her husband. He didn't sound much better.

"I'm almost done," the Spitter whispered, rising slowly from the floor. She draped a towel over the body and whispered a Latin prayer for her sister.

"Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine,/et lux perpétua lúceat eis./Requiéscant in pace. /Amen."*

With that, she left, body determined to be strong but will breaking. Oh how such hell was thrown upon them. How it took away what she loved most. Such evil, such damned evil was perched on her shoulder, smiling like a tabby with a tail between its teeth. She didn't know when it would all end, but she knew the ending would come.

*Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,/and let perpetual light shine upon them./May they rest in peace. Amen.


	26. ZOANTHROPY

**ZOANTHROPY – (n) delusion of a person who believes himself changed into an animal**

"Dragon 33, do you have visual?"

"Visual confirmed, Vice Grip. Will be over target in 15 miles."

"Copy that. Dragon 40, come in."

"Dragon 40. Sidewinder is cocked and ready to fire. No sign of survivors. Wait…"

"Report, Dragon 40."

Silence. "Something's tits up at 4 o'clock."

"Where?" Dragon 33 inquired, craning his neck to get a view.

"In that lake. See all the Z-1s and Z-2s around it?"

"Dude, I don't see shit. Where the he—I got it. Is that target?"

"Not quite. Is that the missing jet?" Vice Grip demanded to know.

"Looks like one of our birds," Dragon 33 confirmed. "Lemme go in closer."

The pair turned in the direction of the wreckage, determined to do a preliminary sweep of the area before the main squadron came through to reclaim the area. They swooped low, effectively blowing some of the Commons from the edge of the lake as they dove and rose back into the sky.

"You catch anything, Eagle Eye?" Dragon 33 asked his flight companion.

"Not sure, but too late now. We have to drop our load and get the hell out."

"Report, Dragon 33, Dragon 40," interjected Vice Grip.

"Situation Normal," replied Dragon 33. "Heading to marker to drop. What's our time?"

"T-minus 28. You boys are pushing it."

"We have time. I'm gonna circle around, check for survivors really quick, and then drop," Dragon 40 stated, and quickly turned his com off before taking off in a wide circle. He dropped down a few meters above the building tops and scanned for normal life. Z-1s and Z-2s screamed at his afterburners, but he couldn't see any Z-3s or CBs at all."

"Damn Z-3s all missing…"

He turned around after another few minutes and went for his target: a park with a large number of Z-1s and Z-2s were spotted about a week ago. He swooped over, circled once he was sure it was still populated (which made him wonder why they all were there of all places) and opened his bay doors. He watched the bomb drop at his six and saw it blow into a gas cloud of red. He watched the crazed creatures come at the gas bomb, clawing and screaming loud enough for him to hear over the roar of the jet engine.

He switched back on his com.

"Dammit, Randy, what the hell is wrong with you?!" blasted in his ears.

"Jesus Christ, Frank. I'm alive. No need to get your tits all twisted."

"If you ever decided to play rebel again, I will have your rank faster than a Z-3 can kill you. We are not here to have fun. We are here to do a job and kill those crazy mother fuckers. We are here to take back our fucking country! Do you understand me?!"

"So all that bullshit back at base about gathering them and turning them back, it's a lie? All that fucking work, all our friends and comrades?" Dragon 40 replied grimly.

"That is classified information. You know better than to disobey orders. We are being paid to do one thing: drop those bombs. Now, you can either waste the rest of your fuel tank hovering over those god-forsaken monsters, or you can get your happy ass back to base and live to see another fucking day."

Vice sat in silence for a long fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen seconds, letting them vent before interjecting.

"Squadron is T-minus 6 minutes away. If you're both done—"

"I'm not done!" Randy snapped. "Taylor, you jackass. Your sister could be out here. Your wife could still be alive. And you're just gonna sit back and watch as they blow the brain of everyone one of them? Our old family and friends?"

"I-I can't do anything to stop them."

"Tell them to turn around. Say the Chief called an emergency meeting regarding the gas. I don't give a fuck what you say, but say _something_!"

Seconds of tension dwelled into minutes of inner turmoil. Randy was ready to speak again when his plane began to shut off, one light at a time. He tried to flip switches, to eject, but everything was locked. He screamed and cursed into his headset.

"Sorry, Randy. We can't have you mentioning this to anyone else back at base. We can't afford a revolt," Taylor whispered as the plane swirled towards to ground and land crooked on the ground, surprisingly spared of an explosion.

"BASTARDS!" Randy shouted, the Z-1s and Z-2s swarming his vessel with such anger and power that it didn't seem possible. He stared at the faces of these once-humane people who starved for his skin, begged and pleaded for him to take their pain away. The glass above him was beginning to crack as they climbed atop each other to try and reach him. He looked into their eyes and could see the torture that he had brought upon them.

_God, why? _He thought to himself. _Why did I do this? These are sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, siblings, lovers, friends. I just gave the Air Force a pass to commit genocide. Do…do I even know the names of these creatures? What the civilians call them?_

Randy racked his brain amidst the screams and slowly failing glass barrier. Z-1s and Z-2s…something simple. Simples, maybe? Normals? No. That was stupid. Who would call something as common as these ty-

"Commons!" he cried aloud, the first amount of pride he's felt in a long time swimming through his veins. A fleeting moment of silence, almost indiscernible, passed as the crashing of fists and screams paused before continuing on with more venom than before. He went about. CBs were Clean-Bloods. Z-3s were the Altered Ones. The corps frowned against naming them, although someone had made a joke about the skinny crying one being the Chief's ex-wife.

He wasn't sure what broke first, the glass or his soul. His body didn't feel the nails or the teeth, and a sudden explosion from the town center did nothing to awaken him from this comatose state. Bullets barraged the Commons that were swarming him, a few piercing his flesh with their warm, metallic teeth. If this was death, he wasn't sure it was as painful as everyone had claimed it would be. It was more like a separation, like flying…

* * *

Photographs clicked across the dining hall wall, hoots and hollars and cheers filling the room with each passing photo.

"Hey hey hey!" someone called through the noise! "This was the beast Davis and Davis took down. Wonder Twins, Go!"

The photo of the shoddy apartment containing a large, inhuman carcass and the remains of a bloated body was allowed to sit on the wall for a good few minutes as the story was told.

"And in the back, this fat bile bitch was watching, she looked like she was gonna piss herself. She even came and attacked me," the older twin went on. "I put a bullet right between her eyes, like she was a pig due for slaughter."

"You would've thought the monster and her were in love or some shit, the way he threw his fist at us. Broke three of my ribs. Nearly killed me. My brother was the lucky one, he was on the other side of the room. Put a clip in the back of the thing and finally dropped it. If we could've snuck the head back, it'd be over our bunk."

A roar of laughter tore across the room as another photo came up.

"Oh! Oh! Damn, this was a funny one! It should be a damn achievement or some shit. These two were fucking, hard too. I mean, ho-lee-shit! Garfeild flash-bombed em. It was classic, the look of utter shock on their faces. Would've been in the pic, if he hadn't popped a few in their faces."

"You mean they were gay?! Hey, Jones, think I found what you'll be doing if you get turned."

"Hey hey. Don't be a dick, Flores. Just skip to the next one."

"That's it. Kithridge and her team never came back."

Curious whispers overtook the crowd.

"What do you mean, they never came back?"

"I think something killed em. Something big."

The Davis twins protested. "We took out the mother fucking monster of this apocalypse. Are you telling me that they couldn't handle what we did?"

"I don't think it was one of them, man…I think it was something different."

"Maybe a CB?"

An awkward silence fell. Killed by one they were meant to save. It was possible…The tape died down and the crowd slowly shed in different directions. It was a depressing thought. It made this job even harder. So, who were the monsters? The Infected…

…or the Immune?


End file.
